


Aftertaste

by runs_in_the_family



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Boys Kissing, Internalized Homophobia, Let's say dub-con for safety's sake, M/M, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 20:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runs_in_the_family/pseuds/runs_in_the_family
Summary: There are a lot of reasons to down a bottle of whiskey. Sometimes you need Dutch courage. Sometimes you need to forget a mistake. Sometimes you need to cling to a memory.or: A not-so-drunk Billy stumbles across a very drunk Steve. Some things happen.My prose is better than my summaries would have you believe.





	Aftertaste

     Billy hated whiskey. He really fucking hated it. He’d tried it a handful of times when he was younger, when raiding unsupervised liquor cabinets was the only way he and his friends could get alcohol. But kids are idiots and they’re lightweights, so usually they’d all end up blitzed off of two sips of bourbon and thinking they were the shit. Billy always felt sick when he drank spirits but especially when he drank whiskey. Despite throwing up almost every time he had it, though, he’d always insist on drinking more than anyone else. When he was fifteen, he’d ended up getting his stomach pumped. Then he’d ended up with a black eye.

     He hadn’t drunk whiskey since then.

     He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for. A foggy image of a logo stuck out in his mind but not much else. A name had been mentioned but what it was, he couldn’t recall. Several of the labels looked indistinguishable from each other, others looked familiar but not quite what he was searching for. He started to worry that he was misremembering. Worse still, the numbers on the shelves were making him nauseous. Every time a dauntingly high price leapt out at him, Billy prayed that he wouldn’t glance up and see the little red and gold emblem staring back at him. Most of his gas money was clutched in his fist and the longer he spent roaming the liquor store the more he worried that he wouldn’t have enough.

     Moments from angrily giving up, he caught a glimpse of a red mark that triggered the clearest of memories. His eyes dropped to the price listing and a smile spread across his face.

     “Cheapskate.”

     Billy snatched the bottle from the shelf and marched towards the counter.

     “You alright?” The heavyset clerk asked, making no move for the bottle.

     “Yeah, just this.”

     The man stared at Billy and remained unmoving.

     “You got any I.D.?” He asked, directly.

     The instant Billy pulled his fake license from his pocket the clerk snatched it from his hand. The act triggered a silent countdown in his mind as he tried to quell the almost overwhelming urge to punch the guy.

     “This is a California license.” The clerk remarked, as if he was conducting a police investigation. “This meant to be real?”

     “Yeah, it’s real.” Billy said calmly.

     The man glanced down at the crumpled cash in Billy’s hand, then swiftly around the otherwise empty store.

     “That’ll be thirty bucks.” He said, without pressing a single button on the register.

     The countdown reached zero and Billy tried to take a deep breath.

     “Tag says – ”

     “Tag’s wrong.” The man interjected. “Thirty bucks.”

     Billy fist clasped tightly around the twenty in his palm.

     “You sure?” He smiled. “Because – ”

     “Get outta here, kid.” The clerk grabbed the bottleneck and began sliding it from the counter.

     Billy sighed. He’d tried. He’d really tried.

     The sensation of the man’s nose cracking under Billy’s fist was hugely satisfying. If he thought he’d have the time, he might’ve clocked him once more for the sheer fun of it but Billy knew that he would’ve already been caught on camera so time was of the essence. He snatched the bottle, said goodbye to the I.D. that had been so good to him for so long, and ran out of the store, loudly advising the clerk to suck his dick.

* * *

 

     If Billy wanted to get drunk, his go-to was beer. It was simple, it was cheap. When he needed to pass out, as he sometimes did, he’d pound back cans until everything went dark. He used to, anyway. The higher his tolerance got, the longer it took for him to hit that sweet blackout stage that he often sought. Stronger drinks would’ve gotten him there faster but his distaste for spirits meant that he was stuck chugging beers and hoping they’d be enough to get him blitzed.

     He was two keg-stands and innumerable cans deep when he went searching for a free bathroom at Josie Ryan’s party. Despite the alcohol flowing through his system, he was only slightly buzzed and still had the where-with-all to find his way to both bathrooms. Neither proved to be without a line outside their door.

     Cursing every single person in attendance, Billy moved his way through the crowded house, shoving away any partygoers who tried to catch his attention. When he reached the backdoor, he stumbled out into the cold and circled the house.

     “God damn, fucking…” He mumbled into his cigarette as he began unbuckling his belt.

     He stopped at the side of the house and pulled himself out of his jeans, taking aim at a pastel flowerbed before releasing a stream of urine into the soil.

     Sighing in relief, Billy smiled into the night sky. When his attention was pulled by a nearby “thud”, he made no move to stop his flow, simply leaned backwards slightly and squinted into the darkness. What he saw tickled him.

     “Harrington!” He cheered. “You taking a shit down there?”

     Steve sat slumped against the house, spitting distance from Billy’s makeshift restroom. He looked up but remained unresponsive.

     “Or you just trying to catch a glimpse?” Billy winked, shaking the last few drops from his dick.

     He saw Steve roll his eyes and turn away.

     “I get it, graduating soon, no more sneaky peeks in the showers.” Billy could’ve put himself away then but chose not to. “Wanna get as much of me as you can before – ”

     “Go fuck yourself.” Steve snapped, turning to him.

     Billy relished the attention. He smiled down at Steve as he tucked himself back into his jeans.

     “Struck a nerve.” He plucked the cigarette from his lips and released a plume of smoke into the night.

     Steve shook his head and raised a large bottle to his lips, knocking it back. Billy’s focus was drawn to the movement of his throat as he downed the liquid. He found himself counting the swallows.

     “Christ, Harrington.” He scoffed. “Drinking yourself to death?”

     Steve lowered the bottle and let out of hollow laugh.

     “What, you’d care?”

     Though only half way through the smoke, Billy flicked his cigarette at him. Steve threw his arm up wildly to deflect the tiny missile.

     “Dick.” He spat, wiping ash from his jacket.

     Billy stepped forward and yanked the bottle from Steve’s grip.

     “I wouldn’t wanna miss it.” He clarified, inspecting the label.

     Fucking whiskey.

     Steve pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the bottle from him.

     “Asshole.” He said, as if it were Billy’s given name. “I can handle my liquor, alright?”

     Billy smiled as Steve suppressed a belch, his eyes and cheeks blowing out.

     “Whatever you say, pretty boy.” He shook his head and started back for the party.

     “Hey!”

     When Billy turned around, he got a good look at what condition Steve was in. Red face, glazed look in his eyes. Unsteady on his feet. The bottle swinging from his hand was definitely more empty than full.

     “Can I have a smoke?” He asked, voice dulled by the alcohol.

     The instinct was to laugh or insult or simply turn and walk away. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, Billy reached for the pack in his jacket pocket.

    It was after watching Steve make three failed attempts that Billy finally offered to light the cigarette for him. In return, Steve shook the whiskey in his direction and cocked an eyebrow.

     “You like Jim Beam?” He asked, cigarette bouncing on his lips.

     Billy lit his own and took a long drag.

     “Hell no, I don’t touch that shit.”

     Steve seemed taken aback.

     “Don’t tell me you can’t handle a little whiskey?” He laughed slightly.

     Billy threw him a look that called an end to the subject. Silenced, Steve knocked the bottle back and downed another few gulps. The sight of it made Billy wince.

     “You trying to black out?”

     Steve stumbled slightly when he pulled the bottle from his lips.

     “Take more than this for that.” He muttered, replacing the bottle with his cigarette.

     The hum of drunken voices and cackled laughter drifted out of open windows, filling the silence as the two of them smoked. Billy cringed internally at the squawking pop music that undercut it all.

     “I love this song.” Steve remarked quietly.

     Billy wasn’t sure if he was meant to have heard him. He pretended not to anyway. Instead, he gave in to his own curiosity.

     “So is this you drowning your sorrows or – ”

     “Dutch courage.” Steve said, head bobbing.

     The thought made Billy chuckle.

     “And what does King Steve need Dutch courage for?” He flicked ash into the piss-drenched flowers. “Gonna tell a girl you like her?”

     Billy expected his mocking tone to elicit some delightfully defensive reaction. Instead, Steve remained unmoved. A slight shake seemed to be developing in his hands.

     “Well, make sure you don’t go too hard. Friend of mine got so drunk, ended up falling asleep on top of a girl once.” Billy moved to lean against the house. “Big guy too. She never did walk right again after.”

     Steve seemed wholly disconnected from the conversation. He was staring at the ground, thumbing the rim of the bottle and taking long, deep drags from his cigarette. Billy watched him for a good minute before snapping his fingers, pulling his attention towards him.

     “You with me, Harrington?”

     There was a long pause before Steve spoke.

     “I shouldn’t be this scared.”

     Billy sniggered at the drunken nonsense.

     “And what are you scared of, pretty boy?” He smiled, awaiting an embarrassing answer.

     Instead, Steve took a deep breath and kicked at the ground like a nervous child. Eventually, he raised his eyes to meet Billy’s.

     “You know I helped save the world?”

     Someone inside the house broke something and a series of cheers erupted from the open windows. The distraction pulled neither’s focus from the other’s eye.

     “That a fact?” Billy smiled.

     Steve’s face remained straight. If the ramblings weren’t enough of a tell, his eyes betrayed how truly wasted he was. They were a duller version of their usual selves.

     “Fact.” He nodded. “Did it with a concussion, too. Thanks to you.”

     Billy felt his face drop slightly at the mention of that night. They’d made it nearly six months without bringing it up. He’d figured it was like an unspoken agreement. No one gets arrested for assault, no one asks what the hell was going on in the house before he got there. Or what the hell happened to his car after. It was a damn weird time to mention it and Billy wasn’t about to apologise right then. As much as he might have wanted to.

     Truth was, he did regret it. He’d regretted it the minute he’d woken up and thought, for a moment, that he’d killed Harrington. He’d remembered anger and excitement and the pleasure that came from breaking something. Then he’d remembered what that something was.

     He’d been relieved to find out that he hadn’t killed Steve. When he saw the guy’s face at school a few days later, the remorse had unexpectedly returned.

     He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.

     “Aren’t you full of surprises.” He muttered.

     Steve stumbled towards the house and rested next to him. Billy automatically slid a few inches away.

     “You’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for me.” Steve said, the slightest of upticks clipping his mouth.

     Fucking whiskey.

     “Well thanks, Harrington.” Billy pushed away from the wall and gave him a gentle shove. “I owe you one.”

     He made it two steps before a hand gripped his shoulder, prompting him to throw a glance back.

     “You don’t believe me, do you?” The Jim Beam clinked against the wall as Steve straightened himself up.

     For reasons beyond his fathom, Billy cut the guy some slack.

     “Nah, Harrington.” He turned to face Steve. “I believe you.”

     A look of relief spread across Steve’s face. His eyes regained a fraction of their usual dark shine and Billy had to forcibly ignore the urge to smile.

     “You do?” Steve smiled, moving towards him.

    Billy could smell the drink on his breath and recoiled slightly. Still, he gave a small nod of assurance.

     “So you gonna thank me?” Steve asked, cigarette barely clinging to his lips.

     As much as he was enjoying the mockery that was Drunk Harrington, Billy was starting to feel exhausted.

     “Thought I just did.”

     Steve slipped what remained of his cigarette from his mouth. He held Billy’s gaze through still mostly glazed eyes.

     “Nah, like…like in the movies.” Steve quickly wet his lips. “When the hero saves the day and…gets the girl and…”

     Voices and drumbeats filled their silence again. Billy felt his hand clench into a fist but he forced himself to stay still. He gave the drunk idiot a chance to back down.

     Sure enough, Steve faltered when his eyes dropped to Billy’s white knuckles.

     “Forget it.” The smile he gave was the most false Billy had ever seen. “I’m wasted, man. Don’t, don’t listen to me…”

     Steve turned and stumbled a few feet before sliding down against the wall, settling right back where Billy had found him. With more aggression than was necessary, he flicked his cigarette butt into the flowerbed next to him, adding to the abuse the plants had already been forced to endure.

     Billy stared down at him. Arms crossed along his knees, head buried in the crook of his elbow. The damn whiskey swinging between his legs. The guy looked pathetic.

     Despite his instincts, Billy remained where he was, watching Steve sit in silence for quite a while. His fists never loosened. When a muffled voice slipped from between the crossed arms, Billy almost jumped.

     “I see you.”

     The remark confused him.

     “What, right now?”

     Steve made no attempt to raise his head.

     “When you look at me.” He sniffed. “When you think I don’t notice.”

     Suddenly, Billy felt sick with anger. None of it was directed at Steve. He tried his best to push it that way though.

     “Watch yourself, Harrington.” He growled.

     The mop of brown hair shifted and Billy was met with a set of shining, wet eyes. His fist tightened.

     Steve finally released his grip on the whiskey and set it down next to him. With a shake in his limbs, he rose from the ground and stepped towards Billy.

     “You said it.” His voice cracked. “Graduating soon. No more peeks in the showers…”

     Steve made a move for his arm but Billy pulled from it immediately.

     “Word of advice, Harrington.” He pushed Steve backwards several inches. “Stay away from the fucking whiskey.”

     He watched as Steve’s face collapsed into total dejection. A tear slipped down the brunette’s cheek.

     “Can you just…” He ran a hand at the wet track trailing down his skin.

     “What?” Billy snapped. “Come on, Harrington, I’m dying to hear it.”

     “Can you just…” The voice sounded desperate. “Just once, can you call me Steve?”

     The request sent a knife into Billy’s gut.

     “You’re fucking pathetic.” He spat, though his voice had lost some bite.

     In the house, a fight was breaking out. Cheers and screams and gasps all wrapped around the unmistakable sounds of fists connecting with faces, bodies being flung over furniture. The party wouldn’t last much longer.

     Steve threw his head back and ran his hands across his face.

     “I think I did this wrong.” He said, voiced strained.

     “What, there was plan?” Billy scoffed.

     When Steve met his eyes again, the tears were gone, replaced with a red hue and a hollow stare.

     “Get drunk.” He said with a failed attempt at a smile. “Figured everything would just…work itself out.”

     Billy felt his fist start to release.

     “Pretty dumb plan.”

     Steve simply nodded and shuffled back to his plot on the ground, nestling against the wall and retrieving his bottle.

     What little buzz Billy had had going was gone. The party was over, as far as he was concerned, but yet again he remained where he was. In the near dark. With Steve.

     “What would’ve worked?” Steve turned his head towards him but didn’t meet his eye. “Would anything have worked?”

     The anger returned. Again, none of it was directed at Steve. This time, he kept it that way.

     “I don’t know.” He said quietly. “You probably would’ve ended up with the shit kicked out of you.”

     It wasn’t a threat. It was just the truth.

     Steve bit his lip and nodded.

     “Guessing roses and a card would’ve sent me to the morgue?” He smiled.

     Billy surprised himself by laughing. The sad truth was that the guy was probably right.

     “Are you gonna tell everybody?” There was a fearful quake in Steve’s voice.

     The thought of it made Billy feel ill.

     “No.” He assured him. “Just…forget about it, alright?”

     Steve scoffed and raised the whiskey, staring at the near emptiness of the bottle.

     “I’m gonna try.” He muttered.

     The longer he watched that lost look on Steve’s face, the more Billy could feel the anger pulsing through his body. It was burning in him. It was fury and it was hate. And none of it, not a drop, was meant for Steve.

     Without a second’s thought, Billy knocked the bottle from Steve’s hand and gripped him by the arm. It didn’t take much to haul him to his feet, unstable though they were.

     Steve looked at him, all shaky and dazed.

     “What happens after?” Billy asked, forcing down the rage swimming in his gut.

     Steve shook his head in confusion.

     “Big plan. You get drunk and then what?” Billy kept a loose grip on Steve’s arm, only to ensure he didn’t fall to the ground.

     Steve’s mouth worked wordlessly for a moment. Then his gaze fell to Billy’s lips and he remained still.

     “Yeah?” Billy whispered.

     Steve nodded slowly.

     Billy backed him up a step until Steve hit the side of the house. He released his arm and moved his hand to Steve’s face, resting it against his cheek.

     “This better not be the fucking whiskey.” He warned.

     “It’s not the fucking whiskey.” Steve breathed.

     Billy slipped his fingers into Steve’s hair and leaned into him.

     In the months since Billy had finally acknowledged his feelings for Steve Harrington, he’d tried desperately not to imagine kissing him. Whatever about the evidently unavoidable sex dreams, he’d tried his best not to let any of those thoughts enter his mind during the waking hours. The attempts had, for the most part, been failures. The more he tried not to, the more he found himself staring. Every time the guy smiled, wet his lips, chewed a God damn pen, he’d catch Billy’s eye. Until Steve’s earlier revelation, Billy thought he’d been discreet about it.

     Whatever thoughts he’d had concerning Steve’s lips had always been imagined under the assumption that he’d never act on any of it. He told himself he didn’t really want it. Truth was, he never thought he’d have the chance.

     But now that they were pressed to his, Billy couldn’t believe how perfect those lips were. Soft, full. They parted seamlessly to accept his tongue. Considering it had spent much of the night drenched in whiskey, Steve’s own tongue was far sweeter than he’d expected. The harsh undertone was there but it was like the drink had been mixed with something else. Maybe that was just Steve.

     He felt two shaky hands slip onto his hips, thumbing at his shirt in an attempt to get at skin. Billy pushed himself closer, chest pressing against Steve’s, and the hands moved in accordance, slipping further back and perching themselves at the base of his spine. There was a tug, pulling Billy’s waist as close as possible to Steve’s own.

     The anger didn’t go away. Neither did the hate. He just didn’t listen to them anymore.

     Flashes of every dream he’d scolded himself for having flew through his mind and he found himself rocking his hips against Steve’s. It prompted a moan that echoed into Billy’s mouth and he could feel the hands slip down, grabbing at his ass.

     He broke from Steve’s mouth with the intention of working his way to his neck, kissing and biting at it in every way he’d tried not to imagine doing. But when he pulled back an inch, he froze.

     Those big, brown eyes. Glazed over. Dulled. Bereft of their usual shine.

     “What?” Steve mumbled lazily.

     Billy let his head drop. He reached back and gripped Steve’s wrists, pulling himself from the boy’s grasp. A confused smile flickered across Steve's flushed face.

     “What’s wrong?”

     Somewhere in the house, in a second floor bedroom, someone was crying.

     “You need a ride home.” Billy said quietly as he stepped back.

     Steve steadied himself against the wall.

     “No, my car’s –”

     “Wasn’t a question.” Billy avoided his eye. “Come on.”

     Steve began reaching for the discarded whiskey. Billy was faster. He picked up the bottle and hurled it against the ground, watching it smash against the path. The destruction brought him sparse relief. Steve only stared at him.

     “You don’t need any more.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket and began walking towards the front of the house. “Move it, Harrington, bus leaves in sixty seconds.”

     Steve needed help when they reached the car and Billy obliged. He was too drunk to drive, too drunk to put on a seatbelt. Too drunk in general.

     As they pulled away from the house, people began spilling out onto the lawn. Just as he’d predicted, the fight had signaled the end of Josie Ryan’s kegger.

     “I’m sorry, Billy.”

     He glanced at the passenger seat and shook his head.

     “You don’t…need to…” He wasn’t able to finish and returned his attention to driving.

     Steve could barely keep his eyes open.

     “I thought I was fucked up.” He whispered.

     It hurt Billy not to respond.

     “Do you think we’re both fucked up?”

     After a moment’s pause, Billy managed to reply.

     “I’m fucked up, Steve.” He said. “You’re not.”

     They traveled in silence for a minute before Steve twisted in his seat, head facing Billy. He felt those dull eyes watching him for a while. Eventually a hand slipped onto his leg and rested there.

     “Goodnight Billy.”

     He didn’t know if Steve was awake when he gave his reply.

* * *

 

     Billy had no idea where Steve lived so he’d ended up driving to Byer’s place and leaving him there. The woman who answered the door, presumably The Freak’s mom, didn’t know who he was but accepted Steve’s unconscious body onto her couch. Billy had declined the offer of a hot drink, not wanting to spend a moment longer than he had to in that house.

     When he’d gotten home, his dad had smacked him a few times and then grounded him for a week. Apparently his breath smelled like whiskey.

* * *

 

     It was the night before graduation and three weeks since Josie Ryan’s party. By all accounts, Steve had forgotten the whole thing. Either that, or he was pretending to. Either way, Billy wasn’t about to bring it up.

     Instead, he was sitting alone in his car, staring into the darkness of the forest. He’d had a dream about Steve earlier in the night. Usually that meant pounding into him in the showers after a game or watching himself ride Steve’s cock in the back of the Camaro. This time it meant lying next to each other in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing. Just kissing. It felt so fucking perfect. And when they’d broken from each other, Billy could see those big, brown eyes with all their shine. Looking straight at him. Wanting him. And he knew they meant it.

     He looked at the recently stolen bottle of whiskey in his hand and took a deep breath. Jim Beam. That was the name he couldn’t remember.

     The cops would probably be waiting for him when he got home. The stealing was one thing but punching the clerk might get him in trouble. He wondered if he’d make it to graduation in the morning. Maybe he’d skip going home. Head straight to the school in a few hours. Get his diploma, then get arrested. Seemed like the best order to do it in.

     Billy opened the bottle and pressed the rim to his lips. The smell that wafted up his nostrils sent his fifteen-year-old self screaming, begging him not to do it.

     “Asshole!” He heard in the back of his mind. “That shit is gonna make you hurl, you’ll probably end up –”

     The instant that he knocked it back, the voice vanished. He choked slightly but fought through it. His eyes scrunched up tight and he remembered how soft and perfect those lips were. The drink wasn’t as harsh as the stuff he’d had before. There was definitely that sweetness that he’d tasted on Steve’s tongue. It was nothing compared to him though. There was something missing that he knew then must have been Steve’s own flavour.

     Billy didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to kiss Steve like he wanted to. Without one of them drowning in liquor. Without feeling the hatred and rage in his gut. He didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to kiss Steve again at all. If not, at least he had this.

     He hated it. It made him sick. But there was that small sweetness that almost made it okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This popped into my head as I listened to K. Flay's "Wishing It Was You" for the 50th time. Listen to it in a Harringrove context and tell me it doesn't break your heart a little bit.


End file.
